


Golden

by witchymarvelspacecase



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 04:24:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11936253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchymarvelspacecase/pseuds/witchymarvelspacecase
Summary: In a world segregated by angelic powers; can a nephilim be more than they seem? Can an angel-born, be more than they’d always thought?





	Golden

**Author's Note:**

> Swearing, mentions of torture and death, mentions of blood, happy ending

The cuts on your hands were bleeding badly, but you didn’t dare take a moment to look at them; the being in front of you commanded your attention. As a nephilim, a child of angelic and human parents, you were below the angel in front of you; a fact that he never let you forget. You had no wings, therefore the power you wielded was weaker. You should have felt lucky, many nephilim were born powerless, no better than long-lived humans. But your power was the reason you were stood where you were; the reason for so much of your pain.

After the angel dismissed you, you quickly made your way down to the kitchens. The manor where you lived and worked had segregated places; places for the angels and places for everyone else. The kitchen should have been safe. So when you ran to the sink and began the painful process of cleaning your wounds, and pulling the splinters from your fingers, you didn’t hold in your hisses and cries. When two large hands covered your own and pulled them from the water, you were shocked. Not only by the hands themselves, which were odd enough; one metal and one flesh, but by the being whose hands they were. An angel.

You immediately tried to pull your hands away, but the angel gave no quarter. He held your hands in a firm but gentle grasp as you struggled.

“I won’t be able to help you if you keep fighting me,” he said calmly; his voice soft, and a little gravely.

You froze in shock, an angel, help  _ you _ ? “What are you talking about?” you asked in a meek voice.

“I will end up hurting your hands more than healing them if you keep trying to pull away.”

“But why would you help me, angel?” you asked, deferring to his title since you didn't know his name. But at the use of his title, he looked to you, puzzled.

“I’m no angel,” he said, head tilted to the side slightly as he studied your face. He was thinking that you must have taken a blow to the head.

Bucky was an angel-born: a being born of two angel parents, but having no wings. ANgels could, of course, hide their wings from view if they wished, but angel-born had none at all. Though angels were not born with wings, an angel and angel-born could be determined at birth by the color of their aura. An aura on an angel was a translucent gold shaded haze that surrounded them. Only a few of angelic ancestry had the power to see auras; the ability to tell an angel from an angel-born, or from a nephilim regardless of their wings being hidden. One such a being had been present at his birth; Zemo had assured him that he was an angel-born. As an angel-born, his power was greater than that of the nephilim whose hands he held, but he was only slightly above them in station. Angel-born were the angel’s enforcers; the ones who did the dirty work. He had been used all this life, and though he detested what the angels made him do, it was all he’d known; all he was good for.

Your brow furrowed. Not an angel? But he was; your powers had never been wrong. His aura was a strong golden hue, the mark of an angel, it wasn’t the silver of an angel-born, nor the white of a nephilim. But as you opened your mouth to say such, the kitchen door flew open. More nephilim piled in; it was almost suppertime and there was work to be done. The angel, still grasping your hands, pulled you out the side door with him. He continued to pull you along as he strode to the courtyard, but stopped there under a large tree.

“You are an angel,” you stated, “your aura is that of an angel.”

“You’re wrong. I’m angel-born.” The angel looked confused. He still held your hands, but now it looked a little like he was holding them as an anchor. His eyes were screwed shut, and he looked to be in pain.

Bucky’s mind was reeling. He was angel-born. That’s what he’d been told. He’d been born an angel-born. Of course he wasn’t an angel. If he were, he’d have wings. He had no wings, so he couldn’t be an angel. 

When he’d woken from the sleep, Zemo and Pierce had told him his history, they made sure he knew everything. Even though they were angels, above him in status, they’d helped him so much. Bucky believed them, of course he did, but why was his head aching so much now that this nephilim had lied to him.

“I’ve never been wrong,” you winced, the angel was squeezing your injured hands, but he looked worse off than you, and protesting wouldn’t get you anywhere. The angel was almost panting, as you looked closer, you saw sweat on his forehead, and his hands were shaking minutely. “What’s your name?” you asked in an attempt to distract him.

“I-it’s Bucky.”

“Bucky?” he nodded so you continued, “what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” he nodded again.

You were an extremely gifted nephilim; unlike most, you had two powers. You could see auras which was pretty rare, and you could heal as well. Healing was not a rare ability, most angelic peoples could heal to some extent. But the fact that you carried two abilities, was the reason the angels had pursued you in the first place. You didn’t begrudge your ability to heal, you used it frequently, most often on humans and nephilim, much to the annoyance of the angels. But that was part of the allure for you.

You twisted your hands a little, hissing in pain as the wounds on your palms pulled uncomfortably, your healing powers had no effect on your own wounds. You’d have to heal in time; but you could help this angel. It was strange, you wanting to help an angel, but he had wanted to help  _ you _ . He had shown no anger or malice towards you, though he did seem confused, lost even. He pulled at you for some reason; a reason you’d think on later. Resting your finger tips against Bucky’s skin, you drew the pain from him. It was an intense and deep seated pain; it felt as if it had been built up over years. The scar tissue so thick and unyielding, like it had been cut at again and again before it had any chance to heal.

Before you could do more than brush the surface, Bucky’s head shot up and his eyes met yours. He still didn’t release your hands though.

“What did you just do?” he asked in a hushed, but urgent whisper.

“I tried to relieve your pain,” you said shakily. Had you done something wrong? Eyes wide, you explained what you had done to Bucky; how you were trying to help.

Bucky opened his mouth to speak again, but a door slammed open behind you before he could form a word.

“Nephilim! What are you doing?” You winced and looked down. Pierce. He hadn’t told you to come back, but he must have decided that he needed you for something again. You tried to pull your hands from Bucky’s so you could turn to face the other angel as you should, but Bucky maintained his grip.

“Pierce,” Bucky said. He didn’t just say it though, it was almost a growl. Your eyes shot to his, as he looked over your shoulder to Pierce.

“Bucky, shouldn’t you be on assignment, not consorting with this whore?” Pierce almost laughed, but your eyes screwed shut, fighting the urge to scream. Damn that stupid fucking angel. Not for the first time, you wished you had the power to kill him. 

For Pierce, it wasn’t enough to know that he could overpower you, he had to  _ own _ you. And he did. You were essentially his property at this point. Though he’d never stoop so low as to actually fuck you, he made sure to imply that you did whore around. This made you less desirable to any other angelic households, made it almost impossible to escape the monster in angelic skin that called himself the master of this manor.

“Don’t think that’s the most pressing question at the moment,” Bucky said, the growl still present in his voice.

Pierce looked to him, a smug sneer on his face, “ah, pray tell what  _ is _ the most pressing question then?”

“Why did you think that you could torture me for years and get away with it?”

Pierce’s face went sheet white. You looked to Bucky in confusion. But Bucky continued to speak.

“You tortured me for years. Wiped my memory, or at least thought you did.Made me think I was powerless, an angel-born. It worked a treat for a while didn’t it. You chopped off my wings. Cauterized the wounds to prevent healing, and told me I’d been injured, that I’d been born without wings entirely and that the pain was from an injury.” Bucky stepped closer to Pierce, dropping one of your hands but still holding your other. He maneuvered you slightly behind him. “You didn’t know you had the one person,  in existence, who could help me, locked up right in your own manor did you?”

Pierce, who had been stepping back as Bucky closed in on him, stopped and his eyes found you. Rage surpassed the fear in his eyes, and he darted towards you, screaming . Bucky stopped him; caught him with his metal arm around Pierce’s throat.

“You thought you could make me weaker than you. That you could use me, and lord your power over me... You killed my family.” Bucky froze, his flesh hand tightening around yours. He’d just remembered his family. His poor little sister, she’d tried to save him, and Pierce had killed her right in front of him. Bucky hadn’t recognized her, hadn’t known who she was, but she’d still tried to save him.

Without another word, Bucky’s metal hand closed tightly around Pierce’s throat, crushing his windpipe. An injury that Pierce could heal from, but Bucky wasn’t done.

“Remember what my power is Alex?” Bucky asked. You squeezed his hand. Alex? Pierce’s first name was Alexander; had Bucky known him? With a sick feeling in your stomach, you realized that they were likely more than just acquaintances; your hatred for Alexander Pierce grew as white flames flickered from the tips of Bucky’s metal fingers.

“Angel fire,” Bucky whispered as the flames engulfed the other angel’s body. Angel fire was the only thing that could kill an angel; a  _ very _ rare ability. No wonder Pierce had lusted for Bucky’s power, been so jealous of him, wanted to control him.

As the two of you stood in silence, you squeezed Bucky’s hand again; intending to offer comfort, but Bucky turned to you instead.

“Shit, your hands,” Bucky muttered, picking up your other hand and cradling them in his.

“I’m fine, really I’ve had worse.” That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Bucky’s face fell farther and he began to fuss over you.

 

Months later…

 

Bucky, you were realizing, was unlike  _ any _ angel you’d ever met. 

After killing Pierce, the manor became his. Bucky quickly cleared out most of the inhabitants, with the exception of the nephilim and some of the angel-born. But Bucky’s first priority had been you. He’d picked you up in his arms and carried you to his room. He’d tended to your hands, and before you even knew what to say, had you wrapped in a blanket sitting on his bed as he ordered the house around from your side.

You thought it had been out of deference to the fact that you had been the one to unlock his memories, and perhaps it had been at first, but it grew to something else entirely. You were the first person to show Bucky kindness, without expecting anything in return. You’d only intended to take away his pain, but you’d inadvertently done so much more. He  _ did _ owe you, more than he could ever repay, but he felt more for you than gratitude.

As you’d helped him regain access to all of his memories, the two of you had talked, grown closer. You were his first confidant. He knew that he could talk to you, could ask for your opinion and you would give it to him, no filter. You had been the one to see him as more than the title assigned to him, and he saw you as so much more than yours. Acquaintance grew to friendship; trust turned to love.

Looking at it now, it was still unbelievable. Bucky had flouted tradition; had forgone the manor entirely, though he entrusted it to an angel named Steve, who he knew he could trust. Bucky had chosen to leave the place that held so many painful memories for you, and build home somewhere else. 

The two of you were almost through with renovation on the manor you’d found. The building had been a crumbling wreck, and it’s inhabitants had been desperate and lost. But together, you’d made progress. The building was almost completely finished, just one room left. One that you’d kept a secret from Bucky.

“I don’t know why you won’t let me see it!” he whined from outside the door. He could very easily open the door, but he knew how important your autonomy was to you, and he respected you. You smiled at the gesture; something so small could really mean a lot to you.

“Soon, angel,” you laughed lightly. When Bucky was acting up, or when you wanted to tease him, you’d still call him “angel”. He liked it, you were the first to call him that since he came back, and now you were the only one who could.

“How soon? It’s been a month and a half!”

“Well I won’t be able to keep the secret much longer,” you hummed as you placed the last pillow. The room was done, and you were ready to show him, but you had to tease him just a little more first.

“What do you mean, Doll?” he sounded so confused, you almost laughed. 

“Well I’m gonna start to show pretty soon.”

“You’re gonna start to… what? Doll, what are you talking about?”

“Open the door and find out,” you smiled. He pushed the door open and his eyes bugged out of his head.

The nursery was a simple design, mostly gray and white, but it was warm and cozy feeling. You were sitting in the rocking chair, smiling still as you watched your angel’s face go from completely lost, to hopeful, to ecstatically happy.

He ran to you, knelt in front of the chair and looked into your eyes, his own glassy with tears.

“ _ Please _ tell me you’re not kidding.”

“Not kidding, angel.”

He threw his arms around you and burried his face awkwardly in your chest. You ran your fingers through his hair and let your own tears fall. Contentment, love, and hope filling your chest as you heard Bucky mumble into your skin,

“I love you  _ so _ much, Doll. I love you so much, and we’re gonna have a family.  _ Holy shit _ .  _ A family _ .”

You stroked Bucky’s back a few hours later as you laid in bed together, his forehead pressed to yours. You lightly brushed over the scars where his wings had been. Every night you did this, fed a little of your healing power into his old wounds. Waiting until he was asleep and couldn’t protest, you tried your best to alleviate the pain you knew he still felt from time to time. You weren’t focused though, as you dwelled on your growing family. More power than usual flowed into Bucky. Apparently just enough.

A golden glow filled the room as Bucky’s eyes shot open.

“Doll, what just happened,” he looked to you, but your eyes were focused over his shoulder, at the wings you could see sprouting from his back.

“Your wings, angel,” you whispered, “your wings.”

 


End file.
